


I Believe in the Sun

by EffervescentYellow



Series: Sun Moon Stars Rain [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Boarding School, Bullying, Disabled Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Genderqueer, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Kidlock, M/M, Major Character Injury, Romance, Slow Burn, Trans, Trans Male Character, University, ftm/Mycroft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 13:48:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17684666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EffervescentYellow/pseuds/EffervescentYellow
Summary: Before Mycroft Holmes became the powerful man he is today, he faced a daunting childhood in which he was neither understood nor valued in the way he so desperately needed. This story documents that journey of growing into his true self despite all circumstances.





	1. Chapter 1

In an old country manor in the sloping greens of Cheshire, Moira Agnes Holmes was born to the deliriously wealthy Alistaire and Calanthe Holmes. Neither took much interest in the child; Moira Agnes had not been planned and had not been wanted and so the small child was carted off to live at her grandfather’s house where she would be raised by old Mrs. Carrington, the same nanny that had raised Calanthe years before. Her grandfather, Myron, took a great interest in children and was happy to have the young child wander around the gardens and libraries and great halls of his home. Although he did not approve of his own daughter shunning her own daughter, he found that he liked the company and spirit that Moira Agnes brought to his quiet home, so he did not push her parents to care for her themselves. 

Three years later, when Moira Agnes was finally able to toddle freely throughout the nursery and had even begun to learn her alphabet and numbers, her brother was born. Soon young Sherlock joined his sister at their grandfather’s house; they saw their parents once or twice a year when Calanthe finally ran out of parties to attend and Alistaire felt obligated to join his wife at her father’s house. Myron tried not to blame the couple, Alistaire was a prominent judge in London and was home less than often, and Calanthe tended to stay with her husband in the city rather than alone in Cheshire. To try and make up for their lost parents, Myron brought in the best tutors he could find for the young children. Not only did Sherlock and Moira Agnes learn literature, science, history, French, Spanish, and arithmetic, they filled their days with painting, music, riding, and cricket lessons as well. 

Myron did not seem to care exactly what the children did as long as they were content and learning from it, so when Moira Agnes shunned her dolls and dresses for Sherlock’s toys and outfits, Myron thought very little of it. The two of them were always together and acting the same anyhow. He often thought that he should possibly find them some friends to play with and maybe that would lead Moira Agnes to more appropriate pursuits, but at his old age he wasn’t quite sure how to find them anyone to play with without sending them off to school, and so Moira Agnes was left to her own devices for the first few years of of her childhood and was quite happy with that.

For nine years, Moira Agnes lived with her grandfather and Mrs. Carrington on her grandfather’s estate and while she was not ever a bubbly, joyful child, she was content. Days after her ninth birthday though, she and Sherlock were suddenly returned to their parent’s home, though by that point it was only her father’s home. Calanthe Holmes had died two months earlier from a toxic combination of pills and alcohol at a society party in London. While legally she was declared dead by an accidental overdose, many thought the death to be suicide. Alistaire had been known to have affairs and was increasingly becoming an alcoholic with a flaming temper, but with his high status in the judicial system, Alistaire laid his wife’s case to rest and transferred to a court closer to Cheshire in order to avoid the scandal more easily. 

Now without his wife’s company, Alistaire ordered his children home from his father in law, wanting something to keep him from overthinking his wife’s death and absence. While heartbroken that his grandchildren would be leaving him just after the death of his own daughter, Myron hoped this would be an opportunity for the children to finally get to know their father, but Myron was unfortunately very unaware of Alistaire’s looming faults.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time I ever remember stepping inside my father’s Cheshire mansion, I was nine years old with a head full of short curls the same shade as orange marmalade. Sherlock and I had on matching striped sweaters, shorts, and navy socks, and I held his small hand in mine as we approached the house. As we got nearer, I looked up and could only think about how menacing it looked without any vines crawling up the walls like grandfather’s house had.

We were shown in by the middle-aged butler, Mr. Brooks, who frowned at us, especially me, and said very little. He showed us into the front sitting and room and told us not to go anywhere until our father came downstairs. Sherlock kept getting up off the sofa which made me nervous, so I promised him that if he would please sit down and wait that I would read him a story before bed. Sherlock could read small books just fine by now, but he still liked to listen to me read stories to him, so he sat down, kicking his little feet against the sofa, and waited with only a small pout.

I spent my time looking about the room while we waited for father to arrive. Frankly, the room didn’t look like somewhere people actually lived. Everything was so spotless, shining, and garish that it seemed impossible to me that anyone actually sat on the sofas, used the coasters, or touched the drapes. The only sign that this room was even part of my father’s home was the painting of my mother above the fire place. She looked pretty I supposed but her eyes seemed so distant I couldn’t bring myself to trust the upward tilt of her lips. It also disturbed me how little I felt for her – weren’t children supposed to love their mothers? I only felt an ache in my chest as I remembered Nanny and Grandfather waving from the front porch at me earlier that morning, telling me to behave myself and look after Sherlock. 

Looking back at the portrait I noticed that my mother’s hair was as red as mine, too, and something about that bothered me. As I reached up to tug at my own bright curls father finally entered the room.

“Good afternoon,” he stated, hands at his sides as if he wasn’t sure where to put them.

“Good afternoon,” I replied rather meekly, nudging Sherlock to do the same. He didn’t reply, but Father didn’t seem to notice.

“You won’t have a nanny here. I’m sure Moira Agnes that you can handle Sherlock. I’ve hired a tutor for you both also; he will start next week. Until then…well, we’ll see how you settle in.”

Sherlock and I didn’t say anything and just sat there still on the sofa. I wasn’t sure where to go or what to do, so I continued to stare at Father, hoping possibly for a nicer greeting.

“If you need anything the staff is always around. I’ll send Brooks to set up your rooms and Mrs. Ramsey up to find you something more decent to wear,” he gestured at me vaguely with that last comment. I wasn’t sure why my outfit wasn’t decent; Grandfather let me wear whatever I pleased.

~~~  
As Sherlock and I sat cross-legged on the floor of his new room, him stuffing things into random drawers and me following behind to fold and organize, a woman who I presumed to be Mrs. Ramsey called me away to my own new room where she stood with my suitcase open on the bed.

“You don’t own a single dress Moira Agnes.”

“No” I replied softly.

“Why?”

“I don’t like them. I never had to wear them before.”

“I suppose I’ll have to order you some.” She tsked, closing my suitcase, “if your hair were black you’d look just like Sherlock you know. That’s not very becoming for a young lady.”

I frowned at her then but bit my lip, stopping myself from telling her that that was exactly the point.

Mrs. Ramsey left me alone then, presumably to tell my father the news or to order a new wardrobe for me. 

~~~  
Later that night, after unpacking and brushing my teeth, I was just beginning to change into my night clothes when I heard floor creak behind me. I gasped and spun around to find my father leaning heavily against the doorframe.

He chucked quietly at my surprise and twitched his lips into a crooked smirk, though his eyes did not smile at all. He didn’t say anything, just stared at me for a minute longer and then slinked off into the dark hallway, leaving a smell I would soon come to know all too well as brandy in his wake.

I tiptoed over to close the door once more and then hurried into bed, my stomach feeling suddenly queasy. I had trouble sleeping that night – I missed the sound of Sherlock breathing in a bed next to me and the comfort of knowing Nanny was nearby.

~~~  
As the next few months passed, there seemed to be an ever-increasing number of rules to follow. We weren’t allowed to play downstairs because father’s friends would come by and we might disturb them. We weren’t allowed in Father’s study and weren’t allowed to eat with him at meals because we were a distraction. We weren’t allowed to play with any of the staff but rather were expected to entertain ourselves quietly in our rooms.

There were also extra rules for me. I wasn’t allowed to participate in many of the activities that Sherlock was, so when Sherlock went bug collecting for his biology lesson, I got another literature lesson on Jane Austen. I liked Jane Austen; I admittedly liked Pride and Prejudice much more than Jules Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth which Sherlock and I were both made to read, but I truly wanted to be able to enjoy both literature and bug hunting and found it odd that I wasn’t allowed to. I was also made to wear dresses every day and grow my hair out.

I wasn’t aware of this last rule actually. After a few weeks at Father’s, my hair was beginning to get in my face, so I took my art scissors and cut my hair short again. Later that night when Sherlock and I were sitting on his rug completing a large puzzle of a map of Antarctica, Mrs. Ramsey came in to tell us to prepare for bed and gasped so loudly and theatrically at my haircut that Sherlock giggled. She sent him a glare and pulled me up by my shirt collar, dragging me down the hall to Father’s study. I immediately felt my stomach grow cold and my face hot with anxiety.

Mrs. Ramsey planted me in front of my father’s desk, with him peering over the top of a legal book down at me. He got up, thanked Mrs. Ramsey, and ushered her out the door, leaving the two of us alone.

Hoping to avoid any conflict, I piped up with my apology. “I’m sorry I tried to cut my hair on my own. I’ll make sure to ask Mrs. Ramsey next time for a haircut.”

He stared at me silently for a moment and then replied, “Moira Agnes, you’re already an ugly little girl, but you could at least try to look like a little girl.” He then warned me that if I were to ever cut my own hair again, he’d give me a proper punishment, but just to make sure I remembered his warning, he bent me over his desk and hit me hard across my backside.

With my eyes stinging and face burning with shame he sent me off to bed with a dismissive wave of his hand. That night I tucked myself in to bed, wondering why someone so obviously disinterested in children would have me and Sherlock come to live with him. 

In the end, I wished I hadn’t learned the answer.

~~~  
It was late November the first time it ever happened.

I had already helped Sherlock get to bed and was just slipping under the covers myself when I heard the door open to my room. Without saying anything, Father slipped into bed behind me, breathing the potent smell of alcohol down my neck. 

My eyes immediately flew open and my body stilled. I didn’t know what was happening, but my nauseated stomach told me it was something that definitely shouldn’t be happening. Slowly, Father pressed up against me, and I felt something hard begin to rut against my backside. As panic grew in my chest, he began to grunt softly and move his hand lower down my stomach until it reached my private area. There he pressed through my nightgown hard, keeping his hand there for what seemed like ages before he let out a low groan and stilled. Again, without saying a word, he slowly got up out of my bed and left without closing the door, leaving me frozen under the blanket. 

I don’t know how long it took before I eventually fell into a fitful sleep, but I stayed there for hours, my eyes barely blinking, heart racing, and limbs shivering, not at all comprehending what had just happened to me.

~~~  
The same thing began to happen sporadically over the next few weeks. It seemed like any time I smelled alcohol he would show up later in my room. I began to associate the smell of brandy with the act before I even knew what brandy was or what to call the abuse. After a while though, the nighttime groping became more regular and he began to talk to me during it. He would tell me how ugly I was, how I had the same hair as my mother, how he was going to teach me how to be a proper girl and someday a proper woman, how if I ever told anyone about what we did in the night he would hit me. Over time that threat changed to, “I’ll kill you if you even hint at this. And if that’s not enough then I’ll kill Sherlock, too.”

That last threat shut me up permanently. There was not a soul on earth I loved more than my brother and I realized with startling clarity the first time Father made the threat that I would do absolutely anything to keep Sherlock safe.

~~~  
Sherlock noticed eventually. Not everything – he was much too young to know exactly what was happening and frankly so was I, but he noticed that I became more nervous, more withdrawn. I couldn’t concentrate when I read him story books at night and would often drift off in our lessons during the day after staying up late at night. He didn’t ask me about it of course; I don’t think he even knew what to ask, but he would look at me with his big ocean eyes and even let me give him a hug sometimes before going to bed. 

It comforted me at least that Sherlock seemed to have no idea what Father was doing. I took that to mean Sherlock wasn’t Father’s target also. I wanted to make sure though, so one day as we were both sitting against my bed playing with Sherlock’s small train set, I asked him.

“Sherlock, does Father ever come into your room at night?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“No…does he go into your room? Does he read you stories like you read me stories?”

I was tempted to say yes in order to not worry him, but I was worried Sherlock would get jealous and ask Father to come and read to him. “No, he doesn’t read to me…sometimes he gives me hugs, but I don’t like it.”

His brow furrowed at this, “But you like hugs My.” 

I quirked a smile at that. Only Sherlock ever called me My, “Yes from you. I don’t like his hugs.”

“Well why don’t you pretend to be asleep or hide under the blankets?”

“He still comes in.”

Sherlock frowned, his innocent face trying to think of other solutions, “Come stay in my room, we can even hide in my closet!”

I didn’t like that solution, but days later when Father had a dinner party, I found myself in Sherlock’s room later than intended. I heard Father coming up the stairs and immediately stiffened. Sherlock of course noticed and without saying anything grabbed my hand, and pulled us both into his closet.

I sat silently, my heart racing, trying to make out Sherlock’s face in the dark. We could both hear father rummaging around my room and calling out my name, so Sherlock scooted over and climbed in my lap. I hugged him tightly as Father’s footsteps sounded down the hall and even tighter as the door to the room clicked open.

“I know you’re here Moira Agnes.” He slurred.

I began shivering and Sherlock gripped my arm tightly. 

It didn’t take but a minute or two before the door to the closet swung open. Father stood in front of us, his face red and sweaty. We looked back at him with saucer-wide eyes, and time seemed to stand still for a moment. 

“I told you not to involve your brother!” Father snapped, yanking a now wailing Sherlock out of my arms. He carried the writhing Sherlock over to his bed, slapped him across the face, and then came back for me. I was in absolute shock at that point. I couldn’t move a muscle though I felt hot tears pour down my face. Father dragged me down the hall into my own room and spanked me hard multiple times before pressing me into the bed.

That was the first time I ever saw his face while he touched me, and I would never forget the look of sheer rage on his face. I closed my eyes but couldn’t stop the tears from coming, which only seemed to anger him more.

After he left that night, I snuck down the hall, my cold, bare feet silent on the old oak floors, and found Sherlock sitting up in bed, still choking on his deep sobs. I climbed up onto the bed with him and held him close, whispering “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” into his hair over and over again until we both quieted down and went to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Things got better that summer, Father was away more and more often, leaving Sherlock and me in peace at home. It only took us a few weeks to discover why of course.

One day in early June, after our tutors had stopped coming for the schoolyear, Sherlock and I spent the afternoon outside collecting tadpoles and sailing folded newspaper ships out in the small pond behind the house; with father away, none of the staff bothered telling us off. In fact, the only person who probably even knew where we were was the gardener, and he just gave us a small smile before continuing to trim the hedges into shape.

It wasn’t until the sky got dusky and the thick summer air began to cool that Sherlock and I returned inside, our knees indented with the shapes of twigs and leaves and our shoes splashed with mud. As soon as we entered the front door, we were confronted by the staff moving swiftly throughout the house and knew that Father must have returned. Upon realizing this, I took Sherlock’s small hand and we both scampered up the stairs to our own rooms. I horridly changed out of my shorts and jumper into a sky-colored dress with cream colored tights, pulling remnants of the outdoors out of my hair as I did so. 

Mrs. Ramsey soon knocked on the doorframe. “You and Sherlock will accompany your father at dinner tonight,” she said drily, “he brought a guest with him this evening.”

In the year since leaving Grandfather’s, we had never eaten with Father, so I was entirely unsure what to expect. I bit my lip as I went to help Sherlock get ready, but as I saw his wide eyes and worried frown, I straightened up and took his hand, trying to act as if I knew anything about what was happening. Downstairs, we were met by Father, who gave us a sickly grin as he placed his hand low on the back of a thin woman on his left whom he introduced as Delaine.

Delaine’s eyes held a startling lack of life in them as she looked as us, “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” She sounded stiff as she said it, as if there were anywhere else she would rather be in that moment, and I couldn’t help but feel the same.

We made our way into the dining room then and the staff began to bring in the dinner. My legs dangled helplessly off the edge of the chair, and I swung them back and forth as I listened to one monologue after another from Father. He said remarkably few interesting things through the whole affair, but Delaine nodded along mechanically. After a few glasses of brandy though, even Delaine began to pick at her food a little, obviously bored with his increasingly slurred speech. Sherlock began to squirm in his seat, extremely bored as well, so I finally decided I had better get us out of the whole situation before Sherlock did something Father might disapprove of. 

Sucking in a shaking breath, I asked if we might be excused. Though he looked as if he might object at first, he seemed to reconsider when looking at Delaine and chose rather to wave us off with a limp shake of his hand. I dragged Sherlock out of the room quickly, leaving the two of them alone to have the rest of the night together. I felt a little sick to my stomach thinking about what would likely happen to Delaine that night. I suppose she must have known what was coming, but she seemed so distant the whole night I wondered if that really made it any better. I couldn’t help but feel grateful to her though, and I frankly hoped she would stay around for a very long time, because I slept peacefully that night with no disturbances from Father at all.

~~~  
She stayed around long enough at least because soon Father informed us that they would be spending the rest of the summer in the Italian Alps together at Delaine’s family villa. Sherlock and I were therefore to be returned to our grandfather’s house for the next two months.

I was elated but tried not to show it for fear of angering Father. He knew of course, so the night before our departure he came into my room for the first time in a long while and switched on the light so that I could see his face. He approached my bed, looking at me sternly and pressed me hard onto my back.

“If you even hint to your grandfather about any of this, Moira Agnes, you’ll truly wish you never lived,” he breathed harshly into my face as he slipped his hand up under my nightgown and pushed my underwear down past my knees. “You’ll have to keep Sherlock in line, too, or he’ll wish similarly.” At that he began to touch between my legs, making me flinch involuntarily away from him as tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.

As I continued to try and escape his touches, he pressed me deeper into the mattress and forcibly shoved a finger hard inside me. I cried out at the unexpected pain only to have him cover my mouth with his sweaty hand. 

“You know I wouldn’t have to do this, Moira Agnes, if you just behaved yourself and acted like a good little girl. Someday you’ll realize how much I care about you and then you’ll be grateful for everything I’ve done.” He pulled his hand away from me then and proceeded to press his body down on top of mine roughly until he grunted out his own release.

Afterwards, he gave me a piercingly austere look and said, “I meant what I said, Moira Agnes, you say a word and you and Sherlock will both suffer,” and then he left the room, leaving me with a pounding heart and sick stomach, wishing Sherlock had a better sibling to take care of him.


	4. Chapter 4

Grandfather Myron

When the butler from Alastaire’s house called me early in the summer to inform me that both of my grandchildren were being sent back to me temporarily, I immediately felt pity that their father’s interest in his own children lasted such a short time, but I was undeniably glad to have some company for the next few months. In the children’s absence, I had let go of all the staff except for Mrs. Patterson who still came to cook and clean each day, so the house was quiet. I called Mrs. Callaway, the old nanny, to see if she would come back to help me with the children, as my experience was still rather slim, but she told me that as much as she enjoyed looking after the young Holmes children, she was retired now and was not interested in leaving her new life of leisure. She also told me that the children were frankly old enough to care for and entertain themselves now as long as I was willing to lend a supervising eye. I therefore just made sure the library was stocked with appropriate books, their old rooms were aired out, and waited for the day I had carefully marked on my calendar to arrive.

When it finally did, I sat in the front room all morning until the sleek black car pulled into the drive. I got up as fast as I could, which at my age was frankly quite slow, and made my way out to the main door, waving at the children as they clambered out of the car. It had been so long since I had seen them that in my mind they were still as I had left them a year before, so when I saw Moira Agnes follow her bouncing brother out of the car in a dark green dress and with a head full of long, red curls, my heart clenched at how much I had missed and how much she had changed. They had both grown significantly taller as well, and while I didn’t know much about children, I was quite sure they were exceptionally tall for their age just as I had been in my own youth. As the driver got their bags from the car, Sherlock ran up to me and gave a tight hug around my waist while grinning from ear to ear. Moira Agnes was more subdued, biting her lip down on her small smile as she saw me, but I patted them both on the head and led them into house to show them their new clean rooms.

~~~  
I noticed other changes as the days passed by. While Sherlock still swung his feet at the dinner table, kicking the table legs, Moira Agnes no longer giggled but instead kicked him back to get him to stop. Similarly, when they joined me to read in the library, Sherlock still curled up into his sister’s shoulder as she read to him from adventure novels, and he still babbled incessantly about why the characters did what they did and who was the best character and how they were all really quite stupid, Moira Agnes no longer sat and agreed with him but instead told him to stop talking as he was probably bothering me, even after I assured her he wasn’t. The only thing that really assured me that the old Moira Agnes was still around is that on only her second day back in the house, she asked if Mrs. Patterson could cut her hair and if it would be alright if she went out to make mud castles with her brother. I thought it unfortunate that she wanted to shed her nice dresses and cut off her pretty curls as she was starting to look more and more like my own late daughter, but I didn’t see why she couldn’t due as she pleased over the summer. 

I asked her a few times if she enjoyed her new life at her father’s house and she always replied quickly that she did and that everything was going fine, but she never once said it with any hint of a smile on her face. I brought up her new stoicism with Mrs. Patterson one evening, who seemed surprised as I rarely talked to her about personal matters. She assured me though that everything was likely fine. Moira Agnes would soon be a teenager rather than a child and it was normal for teenage girls to be moody and get annoyed with their brothers. Furthermore, it wouldn’t hurt her to have some discipline in her life after such a free upbringing. I felt that she was right and remembered as well how Calanthe had often shut herself in her room and sulked around as she got older, so I dropped the matter and didn’t pry Moira Agnes for answers any longer.

~~~

I soon found in fact that the less I asked Moira Agnes about her life, the more she opened up to me. One night after Mrs. Patterson had left for the evening and shooed both children off to bed, I heard the sound of small feet tiptoeing down the hall and soon saw my granddaughter peek around the corner of the library door.

I pushed down my reading glasses and set my copy of A Tale of Two Cities on the side table, “What’s brought you out from bed dear?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said as made her way fully into the room wearing nothing but her nightclothes and a thick knit blanket around her shoulders.

“Hmm why don’t we go put on the kettle then? A good steaming cup of Chamomile always sends me right to sleep.” She nodded her curly head and I slowly pushed myself out of the old armchair, joints popping in protest as I did. We made our way downstairs into the kitchen and I flipped on the lights and began to search through the cabinets for the kettle. 

She pulled herself up to sit atop the wooden island counter and looked at me with sleepy eyes, ‘Do you think I look like Sherlock?”

I thought that was a pretty odd question but decided I’d better answer without questioning it, “Well I’ll tell you dear My, you look awfully similar, but I must say you’re much prettier than Sherlock.”

She huffed a laugh at that. The idea of anyone calling Sherlock pretty and not getting a piercing scream from him in return was truly laughable. “Do you think I look like a boy though?”

“No, I think you’ll grow into a very lovely young woman.”

“Oh,” She frowned, “What if I don’t want to?”

“Well we all have to grow up, dear.”

She didn’t say much for a while and just frowned into the steaming teacup I handed her. It wasn’t until I was finished with my own cup that she asked, “You named both Sherlock and me, right?”

“Yes, I did. It was very nice of your parents to let me do so.”

“What would you have named me had I been a boy?”

“I believe I was going to name you Mycroft.”

Moira Agnes scrunched her nose up at that, “What a funny name.”

“I suppose I thought it was similar to my name. Maybe that’s selfish, but I always like names that are kept in the family.”

She didn’t reply to that but instead looked me in the eye very suddenly and said, “I don’t want to go back to live with Father, I want to stay and live here with you.”

“And why would you not want to go back. I’m getting quite old, My. Your father will be able to care for you much better I’m sure.”

She kicked her feet out in frustration and frowned deeper into her teacup, “I just want to stay here.”

If I was honest, I wished for them to stay here as well, but I was truly getting on in my years and worried what would happen to them if I passed away too soon. It seemed better that they connect with their father while he still seemed even a little bit willing. Moira Agnes seemed to be getting distressed though, so I helped her off the counter top and suggested she try and get some sleep while still warm from the tea.

After seeing her off to bed for the second time that night, I stayed in the library much later, but I didn’t read. Instead I thought back to what my late wife and I had done for Calanthe around this age and searched around to see if I still had the address and phone number for the Cheston Hill School for Girls. If she truly didn’t want to live with her father, I at least felt confident she could get a proper upbringing there. It might be good for her to meet other girls her age as well.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been unnaturally hot for the past week and today was not much better. Instead of scampering out into the morning fog as they normally would have done, Sherlock and I sat on the floor of his room gluing wooden airplane models. At least, I was gluing together a very precise little biplane; Sherlock on the other hand had completely disregarded the instructions, even though they included very detailed pictures, and had decided to glue his pieces into a complete mess that looked something like a dinosaur. He soon got up and spun around the room, making load roaring noises and swinging his creation into huge arcs. Soon his dinosaur came roaring into my own airplane, dislodging pieces from both models and making a sticky mess on the carpet. Before I could even begin to assure him that we could probably glue everything back into place, he flung himself down to the ground and began to wail.

It was just this moment that Grandfather appeared in the doorway. Although I trusted Grandfather more than any other adult I knew, I still hurried to try and pick up the sticky models, worried that any day now he would see the faults father had so clearly seen in us and his soft-spoken demeanor would quickly change. He ruffled his fingers in his hair, looking very much like he had not expected to encounter a screaming eight-year-old and had no idea what to do about the situation.

“Would you like to come down and join me for tea? I think some food might do you some good,” He still looked unsure as he made the offer.

“Yes, of course,” I said, getting up from my spot on the floor and setting the mess of the models on the windowsill to hopefully dry.

I dragged Sherlock up off the floor and held his hand as we followed Grandfather down to the sitting room. As Sherlock’s cries turned to tired sniffles, Grandfather began to speak rather nervously.

“I know, Moira Agnes, that you expressed your discontent with living at your father’s house. I imagine it must get very lonely there indeed, so I began to think through several options.”

As he said this, he began to pour us both small cups of tea. Sherlock looked begrudgingly down at his as he still preferred cocoa, but I held mine tight in my hands, heart beating fast with anticipation at what Grandfather was going to offer us. I hoped tremendously that he would allow us to stay here with him.

“When your mother was around your age, we found a very good boarding school that I thought would be just the right thing for you, My. They recommended a good boy’s school for Sherlock, as well. I have already sent word to your father and he agreed that this would be a fine option, so it’s all set to go now. School begins soon, but we have just enough to time to make sure you are prepared and have everything you’ll need.” He clasped his hands in his lap and looked at both of us expectedly to gauge our reactions.

I felt incredibly torn. On one hand, I was beyond glad that I would not be returning to Father’s house for the school term, but on the other, Sherlock and I would be forced to attend separate schools. Separating from my brother was something I had never done and sworn to myself I would never do. Sherlock looked confused as well, but he didn’t seem to grasp entirely what this meant for us, so I decided to ask for the both of us, “That’s…very nice. I am happy to get to go to school, but…is there not anywhere that Sherlock and I could attend together?”

“I know you’re surely nervous about moving away, but they’re both top rated schools. I think it’ll be good for you both to make some friends away from home. Going away to school is a very brave and mature thing to do you know.”

I swallowed my protests, as I knew this was ultimately still the better option. 

~~~

The heat had not improved by the time the day arrived for us to head off to school. Grandfather had arranged for cars from both schools to pick us up in the morning. The morning went smoothly as I finished packing and joined Grandfather for one last breakfast, but my stomach was in knots the whole time. It all came to a head though when the car arrived from Cheston Hill arrived to pick me up. As soon I headed out to the driveway with my bags, Sherlock absolutely lost it. He began screaming and sobbing until his face was crimson and he was gasping for air, all the while he had an iron grip around my legs. I tried to hold in my own tears, to show him that it would all be fine, but I felt so sick looking at him crumpled around my feet. Mrs. Patterson eventually emerged from the house to pull him off of me and keep him from rushing into the car after me. While she held Sherlock back and the driver from school put my things in the car, Grandfather came up and put his hands on my shoulders, looking straight into my eyes.

“Now, My, you must be good and brave and keep your head high. I have no doubts that you’ll do very well but remember that Sherlock and I both are in here when you need us,” he said softly, tapping his own heart to show his meaning. “I intend to tell Sherlock the same thing. I know he’s younger, but you mustn’t worry about him. He’ll be a very resilient young fellow.”

I didn’t say anything in return for fear of crying but rather nodded firmly and climbed into the backseat of the car. As it pulled down the drive, I saw Grandfather wipe the sweat from his brow and turn back towards Sherlock, who was still in Mrs. Patterson’s arms, and then they were both obscured by the trees lining the road. The rest of the journey took about an hour, and the driver said very little to me, allowing me to sniffle in the backseat in relative privacy. 

Once arriving on the grounds of the campus, I was struck immediately not by the grandeur of the grounds, though they were grand, or the beautiful architecture of the main buildings, though they were beautiful, but rather the sheer number of other girls of all ages being dropped off by drivers or their own families, and even more so by the number of people whose noses were red and eyes puffy from crying just as I had been. I had never seen so many other children in one place in my entire life, though I admittedly had little experience to go on, and I was tempted to shrink back into the seat and disappear, but I recalled Grandfather’s words telling me to keep my head up and climbed slowly out of the car. 

A plump woman rushed over to me with a clipboard, “You must be Moira Agnes, yes?” I nodded. “Welcome to Cheston Hill, we’re very excited that you’ll be becoming part of the Cheston tradition. I’m your dormitory matron, Mrs. Radford. Now, let’s get you settled in.” She motioned to the driver to pick up my bags and then turned back to me, “If you’ll follow me, I can show you to your room. You’re on the third floor with all the other girls who are eleven to twelve. I’m sure you’ll make some friends very soon.”

I followed her up into the ivy-clad hall and into a room with two sets of bunk beds. The three other girls were already in the room, and one of them had her mother with her. Mrs. Radford then left me to unpack and get to know the girls, which did not start well.

The girl with her mother was sitting on the top bunk of the bed that was open and looked down and me with her legs dangling over the edge of the mattress, “You’ve got a lot of freckles you know.”

I had never thought about my freckles and reached my hand up to touch my cheek. “Ooh made you blush!” she laughed, but I felt oddly embarrassed.

“Katherine,” her mother scolded, “You should at least introduce yourself.” 

Katherine frowned but reached her hand down from the bed to shake mine, “I-I’m Moira Agnes.” I stuttered out nervously.

“Who are your parents Moira Agnes?” Katherine’s mum inquired.

I didn’t want to think about my parents at all in the moment, but it felt rude not to reply. “Alastaire and Calanthe Holmes, but my mother is…” I trailed off, not knowing how to talk about my dead mother after just meeting someone. 

Katherine’s mum looked at me with dramatized pity, “Oh! I’m so sorry, I remember reading about it in the society letter! How terrible, you poor thing.” 

I didn’t know what to say so I just squirmed under her attention and left them to finish unpacking and say their goodbyes. The two girls on the other beds introduced themselves quickly afterwards as well. They were Emma and Alice, fraternal twins from Northampton who expressed very clearly that they had roomed with Katherine last year as well as a girl named Nicole, but Nicole had chosen to not return to Cheston this year and they were very disappointed to have her replaced. They didn’t specify that they were unhappy that she was replaced by me specifically, but I couldn’t help but feel that must be what they mean.


	6. Chapter 6

I came to realize many different things as school started up. For one, I didn’t realize it was possible to miss another person as much as I missed Sherlock. It made me physically ill and I stayed awake late into the night staring into the bunk above me worrying about how he was getting on, whether he was behaving, whether he had made any friends, whether he missed me. Even though Grandfather had told me not to worry, I couldn’t stop. I ate so little over the first four days of school that I was actually called into the infirmary to hear a talk from the school nurse about overcoming homesickness. When I asked if I might call Sherlock, she said that was not an effective way to get rid of homesickness but that I could wait until Sunday when we all got to use the phones to call home.

So, on Sunday I called Sherlock as soon as I was allowed. I was so relieved to hear his voice on the other line, even if the first thing he said was, “My, everyone here is sooo stupid!”

“Hello to you, too, Sherlock,” I smiled into the receiver, “You know that’s not a very kind thing to say.”

“But it’s true! Don’t you feel the same?” I could hear the pout through the phone, “The teachers have already told me I can’t keep yelling out the answers in class, but no one else knows them so I don’t see why I shouldn’t.” 

I felt for him, but I didn’t want to encourage him either, so I changed the subject. “Have you made any friends yet?”

“No. Well…maybe. My roommate is alright. His name is Victor and he likes to talk about dogs and pirates.”

I was glad Sherlock didn’t ask me if I had any friends. 

We talked for another twenty minutes or so before it was another girl’s turn to use the phone. He told me all about how his science class was “actually okay” and they had got to watch the teacher make different colored flames in class. He also told me how they were making him take swim class and how he had at first hated it because the water was cold but now, he was actually learning to swim instead of just float and that it made him feel just like a fish. He finally told me how his favorite part of each day was getting to take violin lessons. I was pleased that he was; back at home nothing calmed him quite like music. I was so glad to hear he was doing well that I temporarily forgot to feel queasy, until he ended the call by saying, “I miss you, My. Very very very much,” and then hanging up.

I couldn’t get the sound of his voice saying that out of my head for weeks.

~~~

My second realization was exactly what Sherlock seemed to be struggling with as well ¬– I was much too advanced for all of my regular subject classes. What I didn’t already know, I picked up faster that all the other girls, and I practically always knew the answers to the teacher’s questions. Though unlike Sherlock, I was able to keep a relatively low profile. I never spoke in class unless directly called on. I believe my classmates associated me with being quiet more so than they did smart, and that was very acceptable with me.

I came to really enjoy maths as my maths teacher was one not fooled by me one bit. She saw right through my attempts to stay invisible and began handing me extra problem sets after each class. I really appreciated it actually, as they gave me something so work on at night so it was less obvious to my roommates how quickly I finished my regular homework. She even lent me some more advanced textbooks so I could read up on new concepts and try to tackle more advanced problems. 

Similar to Sherlock, I lived and breathed for my elective classes, especially piano. It challenged me in ways that none of my core subject courses did. In those classes I only needed a dexterous mind, but with piano I needed my mind to make my fingers dexterous, something much harder to control. I combatted my loneliness quite easily at school by spending my spare time practicing my scales and pieces up and down the polished keys. I was also forced to pursue some form of physical education, so I chose riding. I was not particularly good at it, but I found that horses were much easier to befriend that people. Relations with them were much less complicated. While I expected riding to be a rather solitary sport, though, it turned out that it really was not. We all went to the stables together each afternoon and, beyond riding, were required to perform some of the basic stable chores together. I found that these other girls were rather tolerant of me. We could always talk about the horses or that day’s ride, so I soon found myself being left a spot at their dinner table or with them at the library. In exchange for their acceptance, I began to offer small bits of help on their homework. I would often slip them small hints on assignments so smoothly that they often barely registered that I was helping them. I wasn’t sure that I could really call them friends, but we had a sort of détente. 

~~~~  
This détente was necessary because my third realization was that I really was not well liked and really did not fit in. Not only did I realize quickly that I seemed to be smarter than everyone, I realized immediately that I was significantly taller than every other girl in my class. Furthermore, I discovered that bright red hair and freckles were not considered favorable attributes in terms of beauty. Other girls had nice hair that could be called auburn, strawberry blonde, or even an acceptable ginger, but calling my hair red still seemed to be an understatement. In comparison to my classmates, my hair looked like it was on fire when the light hit it, and according to practically everyone, that was not a compliment. There were of course girls in years above me who were taller or had hair like mine, but no one in my class seemed to register their existence. That or they were used to them; I was the new one, here to be scrutinized. 

I knew I couldn’t possibly be the only one who felt as if I didn’t fit in, but it seemed like everyone else was in hiding, not willing to sacrifice themselves in order to befriend me. My roommate Katherine took a particular disliking to me from the start. She was one of the more popular girls in our year, and because I was not, she made every effort to break all possible connections between us. I did not fail to notice how she and her group of friends would snicker at me as I passed them during mealtimes or how they would make ugly faces when I got answers correct in class. I think my rule of keeping my head high is what really got to them though, and things began to escalate rather quickly. She led a successful effort to learn about everything I was passionate about and try and ruin it for me.

She first stole a large stack of sheet music from my desk one afternoon when I was out the room and crumpled it all up into the trash, but I found it and uncrumpled it meticulously in front of her without saying a word. She didn’t dare say anything because that would involve admitting to her misdeeds, but I felt her eyes bore into the back of my head the whole time. Next, she took one of the books Ms. Edison, our maths teacher, had lent me, and soaked it in the sink. That really stung, because I either had to lie and tell Ms. Edison that I was irresponsible and had done it myself, or admit that I was being bullied. In the end I tried to tell her that I accidentally spilled a glass of water on it.

“Are you sure?” She asked, looking up at me from her desk, her eyes huge behind her oversized glasses, “It’s awfully soaked through.”

I didn’t say anything but just bit my lip and willed her to understand. She looked at me closely for what felt like ages and then just sighed and handed me another book.

“Maybe…keep this one off of your desk.”

I did, and Katherine tried another tactic. A few weeks after finally cementing my place among the riding team members, I came into my room to find Katherine, the twins, and a whole gaggle of their friends sitting up on both of the top bunks, apparently waiting for me. 

They had put a large pile of horse manure on my bed.

I couldn’t help it that my face burned hot and my eyes stung. They noticed of course and began to giggle behind their hands. I quickly stripped off the sheets into the hall trash, careful to get all the manure out of the room. When I reentered the room, I looked directly at Katherine.

“It’s such a shame that now everyone knows you touched horse shit with your bare hands.”

I don’t think I’d ever said a curse word out loud in my whole life, but it did the trick. Katherine’s friends immediately stopped laughing and Katherine’s face turned the color of my hair.

I hoped she would at least leave me alone for a while after that, though I doubted she would, likely this just incentivized her to devise a campaign of total war.


End file.
